


Twenty Years Later

by PowerOfFunk



Category: BioShock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Mild Peril, Other, extreme peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:10:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7869601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PowerOfFunk/pseuds/PowerOfFunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bioshock AU. Sherlock is a Little 'Sister' and John is his Big-Daddy. Sofia Lamb is her normal odious self.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Years Later

It was 1948. Through the reinforced window the lights of Rapture were the only thing visible through the inky blackness of the deepest part of the Atlantic; aside from the odd fish or host of jellyfish. He had even seen a whale once or twice. They seemed to go on forever and it looked as though there was nothing beyond them. Sometimes he wasn't even sure that there was.

On the inside it was still dark. Dim lights shone out, reflecting in the puddles of water on the floor. It was cold, and there was a subtle smell of damp in the air. It was almost silent, but for a soft whistle of air and dripping and sloshing of the water as it rippled under his feet.

Slowly he trudged over to the hole in the wall, weighed down by the heavy diver's suit and helmet. There was no rush. They were safe. He banged hard on the metal, and heard giggling in return before the pale face of a young boy appeared.

Looking immensely pleased with himself, the boy brandished a doll in his face. It was a doll of a 1950's diving suit. “It's you John!”

He couldn't have been more than eight. His smiling face was framed by dark curls. He wore a shirt and shorts, held up by braces and long socks with smart brown leather shoes. His eyes glowed an unnatural, luminescent gold that made his pallid skin even more outstanding. Some of the veins in his face were visible.

John reached up and lifted him out of the tiny tunnel, placing him gently on the floor, as though he were something fragile, and precious.

He smiled himself as the little boy scampered over to the body on the floor. The dead one. He lifted his hand, in which he held a long needle attached to a cylinder of red liquid, and plunged the needle into the chest of the dead body.

“We found another angel John!” he grinned excitedly. He hummed as he extracted the Adam from the fresh corpse. Well, it hadn't been dead for long, but 'fresh' didn't really seem to be a very accurate term, John thought.

“Look at the footprints!” He ejaculated. “There are more this way!” He grabbed John's hand and pulled him along after before letting go and racing ahead.

John didn't shout after him, but followed the child, at a slower pace. Humoring him. He was probably right after all. He always was.

Sherlock was out of sight now, but John couldn't hear anything nearby. Sherlock was smart anyway. Smarter than most adults, and could certainly out think any splicer.

It upset him when he thought about Sherlock. He loved that child, and he knew that Sherlock loved him, but it would not last forever. He was Sherlock's bodyguard, and the child loved him naively. One day he would be grown, and these days would be gone. Sherlock would outgrow his love for John. Though by the time that happened John would be old, his genes warped by endless injections of Adam, he probably wouldn't last long. Not against armies of splicers, but it didn't really matter. By then Sherlock would be able to look after himself. He wouldn't need him.

He thinks idly that it would be okay to die, if Sherlock didn't need him.

He didn't even remember anything before Sherlock. He had woken one day on a table and been given the suit to put on. They told him his name was Subject Delta. He had then been taken to another room, where the boy had been waiting. He had been told to guard him, and he had.

One day, Sherlock had decided he needed a better name and had decided on 'John'. John had like this idea, although really he liked most anything begot from Sherlock's brain.

He followed Sherlock through the leaky tunnels of rapture before he was pulled sharply from his train of thought by a high pitched scream.

'Sherlock!' He gasped silently, taking off at a run. The suit was heavy, especially with the drill on the end of his right arm, but the Adam gave him superhuman strength, allowing him to move quickly.

He ran through the passageways, desperate to find Sherlock, following the yells.

“John!”

“Come with us little boy!”

He came to a large balcony overlooking an huge entrance hall where three men were surrounding Sherlock. One of them was holding his hand and trying to drag him off.

When Sherlock pulled hard against the man and was sent to the floor, John wasted no more time in leaping over the edge of the balcony straight onto one of the men, crushing his skull underfoot.

He wasn't quite fast enough as a second man injected himself with a plasmid and lightning burned at him from the splicer's outstretched arm. It was painful but the suit protected him from most of the damage.

He gripped the inside of the drill harder as it began to whirr and plunged it into the splicer's chest. Blood rained everywhere, and bits of gore flew from the man. They were so minced together that none of the parts were identifiable, and the man was dead almost instantly as the drill severed his spinal cord and John easily flung him away, his Adam powered muscles barely even protesting the movement.

As the last man lunged at him from behind he backhanded him, sending him sprawling onto the tiles. He was about to crush the man's face with his drill when he pulled something green out of nowhere and through it at John's face.

It splattered over his helmet, not actually making contact with his skin but as soon as it had burst his world had become diffused by a green haze, and his thoughts were slow and thick.

Where had the man gone? Where was Sherlock.

Whirling around he saw him, a tall woman wearing glasses was descending the stairs behind him, but she wasn't even looking at Sherlock, only at John.

She stopped when she was a few feet before him. Her face was expressionless and when she spoke her voice was cold. “Your name is not John. You do not have a name. You are not a person. This,” She gestured behind herself in Sherlock's vague direction, “is not your son. He is mine. Do you understand? Now kneel please.”

John did.

“Remove your helmet.”

Again, John did as she said. It was hard to think clearly, and for some reason he was struggling not to obey her. As he pulled off the heavy helmet there was a pneumatic gasp of air and he breathed deeply as cold air hit his face for the first time in two years. Sherlock leaned around his mother, he looked frightened, unsure of what was going to happen but also intrigued. He had never seen John's face before.

Looking back up he saw as Sophia Lamb pulled something from her bag.

“Now, take the pistol,”

'No. No!' But he couldn't prevent his arm from reaching out to take the weapon.

“Place it, against your head,”

His arm shook as he struggled against the impulse, his arm slowly moving regardless. His own breathing sounding deafeningly loud in the empty hall. He could see Sherlock, his hand over his open mouth in horrified realisation.

Dr Lamb was almost smiling now, as much as she ever did at least. The gun barrel rested against his temple now, shaking in vain as he struggled to pull it away. He couldn't think! Why couldn't he think?

He wanted to stop. This couldn't happen yet. Sherlock still needed him. He didn't want to die. Please God let me live.

“Now... Fire.”

The last thing he heard before the gunshot was Sherlock's scream of “John!” as the child leapt forward to stop him. Too late.


End file.
